


Iron & Ash

by jadeandamber (hurricanewest)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: EmissaryinTraining!Stiles, F/M, Slow Burn, WIP, canon to end of season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 09:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10409583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricanewest/pseuds/jadeandamber
Summary: After the supernatural community is exposed to the wider world, Beacon Hills becomes an unlikely sanctuary for those seeking safety from the fearful masses.The pack takes their new position as protectors very seriously, with an old enemy on the rise and incursions starting to occur their territory, they need their wits about them.When a ghost from the past appears, lost and in need, will they be able to keep their wits about them, and keep everyone safe?





	1. It's Dangerous to Go Alone, Here, Take This

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in a very long time, and I'm afraid I'm a bit slow to write sometimes, but I think if you're patient, it's going to be great.  
> I have the first little bit mapped out, and a couple chapters in need of beta-ing (a HUGE thank you to @emmessann for beta-ing the first few chapers) (if anyone out there's interested in helping, drop me a line!)  
> I know this is all Stiles being a goof right now, but I promise, there is Stydia to come! A bit of a slow-burn I'm afraid.

Ch. 1 It’s Dangerous To Go Alone, Here, Take This. 

"Are you a ballerina?" Stiles narrowed his eyes and cocked his head as he asked the question, "I mean, stick a tutu on you, and you'd be right at home in Swan Lake." He was met with a predictable silence. "Aaand now I'm talking to a tree.” He looked down at his watch, “It’s official I’ve been out here alone for too long."

He raked a hand through his dark hair, turned away from the overly elegant sapling, and sighed. Patience was certainly not a virtue he claimed to possess, especially while trying to find some stray omegas in woods further from Beacon Hills than he cared to be. A glance at his GPS reassured Stiles that he was still within their territory - at least according to the information they'd been able to piece together.

If he hadn't mostly decoded the message from Argent himself, he would've started to think that this was another one of Deaton's thinly veiled emissary training lessons. Sending him out into the field with some information ('there are a couple omegas with targets on their backs in the woods 60 miles west of Beacon Hills'), vague instructions (‘convince them they’re in danger, get them to come back to with you’), and the hope that the omegas in question weren’t the overly bitey kind.

With the full moon only a few days away, and an influx of supernaturals that needed to be housed keeping the rest of the pack busy, Stiles had jumped at the opportunity to get out Beacon Hills. Even if it was only for a day trip, and for a run-of-the-mill 'mission' (he used the term lightly, since all the other protection/recruitment trips had been so _boring_ ) for a couple of omegas.

That's not to say he was defenseless, he had a couple charms and a fair amount of mountain ash on his person, just in case. He’d much rather have to talk his way out of any jam, than have to rely on an arsenal he still wasn’t completely comfortable using.

It wouldn't be so bad if that damned vet would actually explain the mechanics of how his power, spark, whatever, worked. However, Deaton was completely committed to his 'sage' archetype, and while he was awesome at being mysterious and encouraging, forthcoming wasn't high on his list of useful traits.

Which annoyed Stiles to no end.

He'd always been inquisitive, especially as a child, asking a LOT of questions. With his dad, Stiles was pretty sure the 'Parasaurolophus Incident' had been the last straw. After that fateful day, he'd had a new bike and helmet, a library card and permission to ride to the library by himself. Unfortunately, it didn't matter how many questions he peppered Deaton with, the vet wouldn't just break down and give him the knowledge he desperately wanted.

Because Deaton _was_ the library for this. Sure, he'd Googled everything he could think of, and checked out every book he thought might be useful. Lately, he and his dad spent their evenings poring over police reports, occult books, and vaguely useful articles he'd found online; for the Stilinski men, knowledge had always been a powerful thing.

There had never been a time in his life that Stiles wasn't proud to call the Sheriff 'dad', but ever since the shit had hit the fan and Creepy Uncle Hale had ruined everything for the supernatural community at large he felt like his dad was a new man.

Maybe it was being the Sheriff in Beacon Hills (which had always been a bit odd), or maybe it was just being his father, but the revelation that there was a substantial supernatural population living his town was taken with considerable aplomb. After he got over the fact Stiles and Scott had been lying to him about all the trouble they'd gotten themselves into, his father had asked for a detailed run down on said trouble to catch him up.

Though the memory of his dad trying to understand the difference between alphas, betas and omegas warmed his heart, Stiles shivered at the chill that accompanied the quickly setting sun. Glancing at his watch again, Stiles decided that he’d waited long enough, as much as he loved communing with nature, it was time to cut his losses. Either the information that Argent had sent was incorrect or these werewolves were so useless that they couldn’t be bothered to investigate an anomaly in their territory.

He was debating whether he should retrieve his headlamp from his backpack before making his way back to civilization, when he heard the snap of a branch to his right - much closer than comfort would've allowed.

He ignored the headlamp and reached into his pocket, gripping one of the protection charms that he and Deaton had worked up before Stiles had left on this increasingly un-fun trek out of Beacon HIlls. Once he activated the charm, it would work for forty-five minutes, an hour tops according to the vet. He didn't want to trigger it until he absolutely had to.

Years of practice made sure that he gave no outward indication that he'd heard anything out of the ordinary. Internally however, was a different story. He felt the adrenaline start to kick in as he casually turned his head towards the sound, seeking out anything that might have made the noise.

Nothing. Stiles also became aware that the forest had become startlingly absent of ambient noise. Never an encouraging sign.

Stiles silently wished he had his best friend with him. Was there any better time to have a werewolf for a best friend? When you were slightly worried that some _thing_ was silently stalking you in the woods?

He whispered the incantation and felt the charm in his pocket grow warm as it activated. He tried his hardest not to look like he was running away from a predator (they _loved_ that) as he started making his way quickly back towards the side road where he'd left his jeep.

As he stumbled over a log, and caught a glimpse of a large figure off to his left, he revised his wish for _any_ of his friendly neighbourhood werewolves. Or maybe all of them.

He wasn't completely useless in a fight, but his training wasn't nearly as physical as theirs. He spent a lot of time doing research and training with an overly mysterious vet. They spent their time training _lupo a lupo_. Plus they had freaking claws and teeth and were very strong and fast and Stiles really did wish he had one of them with him.

Which is when he heard the howl.

And then an answering howl.

Of course the omegas that he was supposed to be trying to parlay with were not the chatty sort. So now, he was being followed by some angry, potentially feral werewolves and still at least three miles from the relative safety of his precious jeep. OF COURSE HE WAS! Because that was his life now. Stupid, impossible, incredibly fatal things occurring at every turn.

He abandoned all pretense, threw the soon-to-be-patented Stilinski Mountain Ash bombs in the direction of the howls, and began to run. If his pursuers were done with being sneaky then so was he, and he could at least try to slow them down a little. With his long legs, years of lacrosse drills under Finstock, and all his time lately escaping deadly situations, if there was one thing he could do now, it was run.

Stiles crashed through the underbrush, avoiding low-hanging branches as best he could, all while trying to put some distance between himself and what was sure to be a terrible and messy death. He'd seen his friends eat on pack night, and it wasn't pretty. 'Ribs night' was terrifying. It began with a flurry of snarly teens and ended with discarded bones and barbecue sauce _everywhere._

He had no idea where he was now, all sense of direction lost in the escape. He didn't dare slow down to check his GPS. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up this pace, cross country had never been his thing.

He heard a crash behind him and to his right, the wolf on that side was going to catch him soon, and then, when the protection charm inevitably ran out, it would be all over.

His life was the worst.


	2. Chapter 2: The Cabin in the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' trip through the woods goes from strange to much stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait a little while before posting this, but apparently I have no self-control. *shrug*

Ch.2 The Cabin in the Woods

Stiles seriously hoped the cabin wasn't made of gingerbread.

Although, considering how his day was turning out, it was a genuine possibility, but he didn't have time to worry about witches that might exist, when he had bigger problems to worry about. Namely the werewolves that definitely did exist, and were chasing him. His mountain ash bombs and protection charm had worked so far, but they were really only temporary measures.

He raced up to the heavy-looking wooden front door of the cabin, looking back over his shoulder for any sign of the wolves that were chasing him. Using the only useful spell he'd managed to master, he unlocked the door. Stiles stumbled across the threshold into the cabin, turning around and slamming it closed as soon as he was inside. He leaned against the warm wooden door, trying to calm his heavy breathing, ear pressed to the wood, listening closely for any sounds from outside.

It was silent, uncomfortably so.

Stiles could feel the charm in his pocket had cooled, its usefulness worn out, and he knew there was only one more mountain ash bomb left. He reached for the edge of the door, finding the doorknob and the dead bolt, turning it quietly, he locked himself in. Stiles prayed his pursuers would neither be able break the door down, nor spent summers in a sheriff's station teaching themselves to pick locks. Deaton seemed to think his intimate knowledge of pins and tumblers was probably the reason the unlocking spell was the first and only one he'd become any good at.

He was contemplating breaking down his final mountain ash bomb to try and make himself more secure when he glanced to his right, and couldn't help but roll his eyes. Apparently he'd been so focused on the big, strong door, he hadn't noticed the _giant_ window right next it! Stiles moved to the window to peek outside, slowly inching the heavy plaid curtain open. He peered out into the dark of the woods. The moon was bright, illuminating the clearing where the cabin sat, but nothing else. If there were wolves out there, they were staying out of sight. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Probably a bad thing.

Stiles took a deep breath, trying to calm his frazzled nerves and racing heart. Now that the wolves were out of sight, Stiles was finally becoming aware of the cabin in which he’d found himself; it was warm, cozy almost. ‘Well-insulated,’ he thought, ‘or maybe the oven just finished roasting a fat German kid.’ He didn’t move from the window and resolutely kept his eyes focused on the exterior. Maybe watching for werewolves would put off discovering that he had actually found the one cabin that was, in fact, home to a crazy cannibalistic witch. Although, he had made a bit of a racket bursting through the door. If the cabin had an inhabitant surely they would’ve noticed an interloper by now.

Curiosity overcoming his fear he turned, taking in the rest of the cabin for the first time. He sighed in relief, from what he could make out in the darkness, it was perfectly normal, very tidy with no cauldrons or potions in sight. As his eyes continued to adjust he could see it was just the one room. He could make out small kitchen to his right, and some bookshelves lining the back wall. Slightly to his left, there was a large stone fireplace, and some chairs.   
  
Warily, Stiles abandoned his post at the window, eyes darting to the shadows, approaching the piece of furniture closest to him - a side table. He ran a finger across the surface, collecting no dust. All chances of the cabin happening to be abandoned seemed to be less and less likely. He couldn’t see any sign of the inhabitants, but clearly this cabin was home for someone.

The adrenaline that had fuelled his escape must have been working its way out of his system, because Stiles could feel the inevitable post-rush exhaustion coming on strong. He was suddenly very aware of what a long day he'd had; driving the 60 miles to the trailhead, hiking the two hours to the ballerina tree, waiting around for the omegas to show up, running away from the stupid ungrateful, apparently-uninterested-in-talking-even-though-it-was-in-their-best-interest omegas. On top that the muscles in his calves were suddenly reminding him that it had been a long time since he'd had to run that fast, for that long.

He slunk quietly back to the window, and pulled the curtain back a sliver. There was, thankfully, still no sign of the wolves. Stiles already knew there was no way that he was going to be able to get back to wherever his jeep was in the dark, and despite his desire to get the hell out of these woods and back to the relative sanity of Beacon Hills, he knew he was going to need his wits about him to find his way home in the daylight.

Even though every single horror movie he'd ever seen was flashing through his mind, telling him what a bad idea it was, he knew he was going to have to spend the night in this cabin. He was close friends with several _actual_ horror movie monsters, and they weren't so bad...most of the time.

Trying to convince his brain that everything would be fine, and resolutely swearing that he would leave a thank you for the inhabitant of this fortunately-situated cabin, Stiles settled himself against the door for what was sure to be an uneasy night's sleep.

****  
Morning light filtered its way through the curtains of the large window of the cabin, and Stiles was dreaming of flames and jade when a soft tap on his knee startled him awake. He cracked his head on the wooden floor and jerked upwards, somehow getting his arm tangled in the strap of his backpack. With a hand to his now aching head, Stiles looked up to see who or what had seen fit to wake him.

Stiles was sure that the wolves had come in the night and quietly killed him, or maybe he was having a really realistic dream. His eyes were trying to convince him that an achingly familiar strawberry blonde was crouched in front of him, with a curious look creasing her brow.

And that was impossible.

Two years ago, right before things had gone crazy for the supernaturals nearest and dearest to him, a simple inquiry to the Beacon Hills police department from Scotland Yard had thrown Stiles and the pack's universe into a tailspin. News of a fatal car accident halfway across the world had left him devastated.

"Lydia?"

Suddenly his heart was trying to leap out of his chest, the tiny sliver of hope Stiles had fostered since that terrible day flared to life now that he saw her alive and whole in front of him. He shot to his feet, he wanted to launch himself at her, to wrap her up in his arms and never let her go.  
Which was when he remembered that his backpack was evil and was clearly out to get him. His arm still somehow caught in the strap, and what he'd intended to be a hug ended up being him trying to extricate himself from the backpack of doom.

"I knew it! Well, I didn't _know_ it, but I fervently hoped it," he crowed while fighting with his bag. "I mean, you survived Peter freakin' Hale. TWICE! There was no way that the crash was real! What happened? Did your family have to go into protective custody? I bet your dad witnessed something shady, right? Oh MAN! I can't wait to tell Scott!"

He finally got the offending canvas off his back, and turned around, "Okay! Let's try this whole hug thing aga-" he stopped short. Lydia, or the girl who definitely appeared to be Lydia, had retreated to the other side of the cabin, back against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, with her head turned and eyes closed, like she was trying to disappear into the wall.

Stiles' elation from moments ago started to melt away, maybe he'd just tried to flying hug and then babble about seemingly crazy things to some poor girl who looked _identical_ to his childhood crush.

He moved cautiously across the room towards her and she seemed to try to shrink into herself more. As he made his slow, careful approach, he was more and more sure this was his supposedly dead friend; his years of useless pining made him extremely familiar with all things Lydia Martin. She had cut-offs and had bare feet instead of a skirt and heels, and her normally perfectly coiffed locks were pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, but it was definitely her.

When her face finally came into focus, he stopped abruptly about six feet from where she stood huddled against the wall. The hazel green eyes that he'd described to Scott in innumerable ways were squeezed tightly shut, like an animal that acted as if it couldn't see you maybe you'd just leave it alone.

Every fibre of his being longed to wrap his arms around her tiny body and let her know everything would be okay, he would protect her from whatever she was afraid of. Except at the moment, it would seem that she was afraid of _him_.

He was at a loss. Never in his life had anyone been scared of him. He was the human. Skin, bones, and sarcasm. No teeth, no claws, no supernatural senses. Yes, he had a little bit of a spark, but being able to unlock doors, and activate charms was hardly fearsome.

Stiles stood, frozen, logic and emotion warred within him, wanting desperately not to further frighten, but dearly wanting to comfort and protect. Before his brain could register it was happening, his stupid mouth made the decision for him. He was speaking softly, more to himself than her, and of innocuous things; the weather, the decor of the cabin. He jumped from subject to subject and by the time he got to the songs that were making the rotation that weren't terrible, he could feel some of the tension had eased, and he allowed himself to glance at the girl. He was relieved to see that her eyes were open, gazing off in the distance, and that her posture was less rigid, although still slumped and small.

His litany continued, and now that he was on to pop culture he started talking about his intricate theories for what was actually happening on _The Walking Dead_ (and how he was super grateful that zombies weren't real), and his various thoughts on how _Game of Thrones_ would end. Stiles had just started speculating on whether or not the new _Star Wars_ movies would continue to be amazing, when he glanced back over at his silent companion.

Her eyes were fixed on him.

Stiles was suddenly speechless. The hazel eyes that were locked on him were wary, and full of sadness. The yearning to reach out, to comfort, returned with a vengeance, but he knew better than to press whatever luck his barely coherent rambling had afforded him.

Lydia broke the silence, and, in a voice just a shade above a whisper, said, "You remind me of someone I used to know."

"Stiles," he volunteered when his voice returned to him, "Stilinski?"

She pushed off the wall and moved cautiously towards him. Stiles smiled and uncrossed his arms, he was ready for it, at long last it was hug time.

And then she was behind him, and out the front door of the cabin. The smile melted off of Stiles' face, frustration starting to replace confusion.

Goddammit.

"Lydia! Wait!" He raced out of the cabin after her. The sun was now shining merrily, and Stiles could see no indication of the horror movie he'd been a part of the night before. There wasn't the slightest indication of the omegas, which was nearly as baffling as the situation he currently found himself in. However, it wasn't confusing enough to distract him from his current task of figuring out what was going on right now, so he logged the information away for future pondering. Lydia was quickly making her way around the back of the cabin and he raced after her. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find when he came around the corner, but Lydia Martin putting on gardening gloves nearly short-circuited his brain.

He watched in stunned silence as she picked up a basket and walked barefoot through what appeared to be a rather wild garden. His emotions were still trying to catch up with this quick about turn and he was frustrated with her lack of communication, but watching the girl he'd been in love with for most of his life standing on her tip toes, using garden shears to cut some nectarines from a low-hanging branch of a tree made his heart beat erratically in his chest.

He followed her movements around the garden as she collected some raspberries and strawberries. Gardener Lydia moved with purpose, nothing like the skittish colt of a girl he'd encountered in the cabin. However, when she glanced up and saw him watching her, a dark look crossed her face, and he could see she was muttering something under her breath.

She stalked passed him, glowering "...fairies...all over again..." were the only actual words he could discern. He turned and hurried to follow her back into the cabin.

"Lydia, please just stop for a minute." He was trying not to crowd her, Lydia storming around the kitchen was _far_ preferable to Lydia cowering in fear against the wall. "I just..." he tried to compose himself, trying to phrase this all important question in a way that wasn't too blunt, and came up short, "how did you do it? How did you survive? I saw the pictures.." his voice broke. Even with her standing right in front of him, Stiles' stomach lurched at the thought of grisly photos he'd forced Danny to hack from Scotland Yard.

It was the question he most wanted an answer to, although at this point, he would've just taken her talking to him at all. Some kind of reassurance that what was happening, no matter how baffling, was real and that he wasn't in some kind of near-death, adrenaline fuelled dream/nightmare. Lydia just threw another glare in his direction and started to angrily cut up fruit.

There was a time when Stiles had become accustomed to Lydia's glares, they'd often been sent in his direction - always with a playful gleam underneath. Not now. This glare was full of fury, and mistrust.

He tried again, he wanted to help, to understand, "Lydia? _Please_. Talk to me. I know it's been a long time, and I know we were only beginning to be actual friends, but I promise, whatever all this," he flailed his arms at the general oddness of the situation,"is, I'm actually completely the right ma-"

He didn't have a chance to extoll the virtues of his new and exciting supernatural resume. Suddenly Lydia turned on him, wielding a cast-iron frying pan and advancing towards him. "NO! You don't get to do this again, you infuriating little beast! I don't know how you managed to find me here, but I will not let you trick me ever again!" Stiles backed up as she came at him, knowing that the look in her eyes meant business. She raised the frying pan, "You see this? IRON! Or didn't your other little friends tell you that I'd learned a few tricks from the aintín mór!? Oh, that's right, they couldn't 'cause they're as dead as you're about to be!!!"

Werewolves, freakin' kanimas, even the wendigo they'd taken on a little while back, those he knew what to do with, but a back-from-the-dead Lydia brandishing a frying pan? He was way out of his depth.

His arms were defensively in front of him, trying to figure out what to do, when she took a swipe at him. He tried to escape, moving backwards, then tripped on his goddamned backpack. Suddenly he was on the floor and the wrath of Lydia Martin was on top of him, a knee keeping him pinned to the floor. "Banish mé dhuit fairy!" She roared in a language he didn't understand as she brought the frying pan down towards his head.

Stiles reacted purely on reflex, reaching up and catching the cooking-implement-turned-weapon before it could actually injure him. Lydia froze, staring at his hands, gripping the frying pan. Stiles lowered the pan next to him, her eyes transfixed on his slender fingers as they loosed their hold on the handle.

She'd gone from 100 to 0 in a millisecond, and for the millionth time that day Stiles was confused. His supernatural-data filled brain grasped onto the only detail it could. "Um, did you just call me a fairy? There aren't any fairies in North America, they're pretty much only found in Central and Northern Europe. Unless you count the Tooth Fairy - which is such a super weird tradition by the way. Who'd want a kid's tooth? Well, the Vikings. Did you know that the Norse used to pay their children for their teeth? It's true! And then they'd wear them into battle, yeah they thought they brought good-" A small hand clapped over his mouth.

Surprised, Stiles stared into a pair of green eyes, and for the first time since he'd woken up to this madhouse of a situation, they held close to the emotion he was hoping for - shock and recognition. Slowly, she removed the hand from his mouth and off of where she'd been kneeling on his chest.

"Stiles?" She choked on his name as it escaped her lips.

His eyes widened, and he nodded once, unsure what to expect from the whirlwind of emotions that was Lydia Martin at the moment. With a deliberate slowness, she reached forward, and laid a hand on his chest, near his rapidly beating heart. Then, with a swiftness he didn’t foresee, he found her arms wrapped around him, her strawberry-blonde head buried in his chest.

He gently wound his own arms around her, holding her tightly against him. He did his best to stay in the moment, take in the feel and smell of the girl he'd loved most of his life. But his brain couldn't help itself, re-running their entire interaction in his mind. And, as he felt, more than heard, the sobs that wracked her tiny frame, he couldn't help but imagine all the horrible things that must have happened in the past two and a half years to turn the Lydia he remembered into the girl she was now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!   
> If anyone wants to help me beta this sucker, send me a line over on the tumblr, @jadeandamber!  
> Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, I'm on tumblr, but I don't do much other than be in awe of other people's ability to make GIFsets....but if want to come bother me there it's @jadeandamber


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